‘Where do you want to go?’ The bus station heaved with dozens of 12-seater mini-busses, and hundreds of people.

‘I don’t mind,’ I replied.

‘This bus goes to Gouyeve, on the other side of island.’

‘OK.’ I sat in the one vacant seat, and paid the $1 fare. The bus was full of black women laden with shopping, returning to their villages. I didn’t know what was in Gouyeve, just knew I’d return before the ship left.

It was the most spectacular hour journey I’d ever taken. The women laughed and moved dance-like as Reggae music blared. We hurtled and rattled around hairpin bends, beside cricket matches, up volcanic mountains, past pretty harbours, through tropical rainforest, by steep waterfalls, down into jungle valleys, over rivers and streams with rock pools where people bathed, fished, or dived, and alongside bare beaches with see-through seas. Now and again, a passenger knocked loud three times. The bus stopped, to let them out by a small village or their home. Eventually I felt strongly I should knock too. Surprisingly, I alighted beside the biggest nutmeg spice factory in the Caribbean, not far from a fabulous fishing village ghetto on the beach.

The nutmeg factory produced 1½ million pounds of nutmeg powder in three grades, for fine cooking, coarse soups, and health/cosmetics. That’s half the production since destruction caused by Hurricane Ivan. Outside, Dorothy, a sweet loving lady gave me a Sappe, a large nut the size of a golf ball. ‘It’s a rare spice,’ she said. ‘A bit like vanilla.’ She’s genuine. She doesn’t give gifts to make sales. Her love gives gifts. I’ll buy something.

‘I don’t give gifts to make sales,’ she said, as I picked up a basket of spices.

‘I want to,’ I said.

‘OK. Then the usual price in town is $10.’ That’s true – I saw the prices. ‘But you can have it for $1.’

'That's not fair,' I said.

'It is for me.'

I bought spice necklaces too. ‘They include,’ Dorothy said, ‘clove, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, cocoa beans, love beads, bay leaves and so on. Hang them as an air freshener. After eight months, boil the necklace for five minutes, and they’ll refresh.’ I paid her well. But she’d only take $1 for each item. ‘It's too cheap, I said. I still don't think it's fair you won't take more money. You have a loving soul,’ I said. You sell truth and love.’ She nodded slightly and smiled happily.

Contrast that angelic way with the next encounter at the fishing village ghetto on the beach. Ramshackle huts seemed strewn around by Hurricane Ivan. Young black men and women played cards, dominoes, or draughts, to loud roars at good or bad moves. That was, until they saw me. ‘What are you doing here, white man,’ a black girl asked.

She's wearing a t-shirt that reads "I kiss better than you think." She must like a joke. She's a pretty girl. There's probably not many men who haven't thought she'd kiss well.

‘I like dominoes,’ I replied jokingly. 'Fancy a game, black girl?'

‘Don’t you call me a black girl.’

‘You called me a white man.’

‘Yes, but you can’t call me a black girl.’

I don’t think she’s serious. ‘Why not, I like it.’

She smiled, ‘OK, but don’t you call me a black girl again.’

‘What are you doing here,’ said a man in his 20s. He held up a machete.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll show you around. My name’s Kellon.’ He beckoned me to follow through semi-derelict buildings to the beach. Ghetto people stared at my every step. Most held a machete. With as many as possible I touched their knuckles and touched my heart, the local friendship greeting. ‘I’m a fisherman,’ Kellon said. A tall man came over. ‘This is my cousin, Shondel, and this is his boat. We row out to sea for jacks, marlin, oshange, and yellow fin tuna.’ Shondel stepped towards me, and held up a large machete.

‘You’re not about to use those machetes to rob me?’ I asked. If heis, his face and body response to the question will warn me. Then it's prayer time. ‘There’s so many machete’s here,' I said, ' I thought you were waiting in this ghetto to battle pirates.’

‘This is a ghetto,’ he replied calmly. ‘But we’re a peaceful fishing village. We use machetes to kill and gut fish. Look,' he pointed. Even one of our boats is named, "God is Good."’

His energy is peace. Thank God.

The fishermen were proud of their small rowing dinghies. Each was maintained as well as the cruise ship, painted brightly. The difference between boats and homes was stark. Maybe Japanese pay for boats, but not homes. Last year, the Japanese built a modern pier and fish factory and sales room 100 meters up the beach. ‘They buy all our yellow fin tuna,’ the fishermen explained happily. I’m not happy. The Japanese spend fortunes on posh sushi dinners, and let poor fishermen live in squalor. It doesn’t seem fair.

‘Be fair,’ Kellon said. ‘I’m hungry but I don’t rob or steal anymore because I’ve been in prison three times and don’t want to go back. I just beg sometimes now. Be fair, buy me dinner.’

He’s been my ‘guide’. ‘That’s fair,’ I said. Soon he munched chicken, while I munched fried chunks of Osange fish, saving some for Shondel. I helped Kellon a bit more before leaving.

There was no regular bus back, so I caught a school bus, full of well-behaved boys and girls in blue uniforms. What is fair, I thought. Is it fair for Japanese to build a fantastic factory and not a dozen homes? Was it fair of me to buy dinner for only one man in a ghetto full of needy souls? The problem is, there’s too much suffering to relieve for one company or one tourist. We all help what we can, wherever we are, while knowing we can never help enough.

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Author

See my weird-but-true first blog post on December 1st 2011, for an overview of my polymath, joyful and horrid fairy tale life. Taste the yummy, Godly, disgusting and loving ingredients of future posts - all truthful, with just a little artistic licence.

If writing is the fruit of sin, I must have sinned greatly. Otherwise how was I cured after decades of being 80% disabled; how did I earn merits at a university creative writing course for poetry, fiction and non-fiction; and how did I travel and lecture on TV and radio internationally? I must surely have sinned in wonderfully fun ways.